


Lethal weapons in a public place

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Community: section7mfu, Gen, Guns, London, Shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 06:33:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13735170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Shot in London, Illya is now conflicted about using a gun





	Lethal weapons in a public place

**Lethal weapons in a public place**

 

“You _should_ have gone after him, not stopped to help me,” said Illya.

“I know; you’ve said so several times. Listen, you’re not valueless to _me,_ whatever the Old Man says.”

“Napoleon, there were dozens of people around who would have helped. This isn’t New York – they do that here.”

“Do what?”

“Help people – people who trip over in the street, people who faint, people who look lost. Even people who get shot.”

“I’m sure they do it back home, too.”

“They’re much more wary there – in case someone’s armed and they think they’re being attacked.”

oo000oo

The papers were full of it the next day. “West End shooting. Man wounded!” shouted newspaper-sellers and placards, on every corner of the capital – and around the country. Such events increased sales, of course – shocking the public always works that way.

Napoleon, who had spent time in London and other parts of Britain, was still surprised by the level of interest in what would scarcely have made a paragraph in a local paper in the US, never mind a national. Illya, nursing a superficial wound in his upper arm, was less surprised.

“They just don’t _have_ guns here – you know that – it’s not in the national psyche. That’s why the police aren’t armed,” he said. “Only farmers are allowed guns, for killing vermin. Anyone else has to have a very good reason, so no-one else even thinks of it.”

“Unless they’re a criminal or a psychopath.”

“Well, yes, but they get them illegally. Ordinary street gangs use fists and razors. Hand-to-hand combat – much less cowardly than a gun.”

“Do you consider _yourself_ a coward?” said Napoleon, seriously.

“I sometimes wonder if we’re cowardly to carry a weapon like we do.”

“Even if it’s loaded with sleep darts?”

“We can still choose to load them with bullets.”

“It’s part of what we do. Part of our … our work uniform.”

“That doesn’t make it any better, Napoleon. A licence to kill shouldn’t be part of a proper job.”

“But, Illya… you’ve killed – you were trained to kill.”

“I’m older, now. I can see better what it means. It just adds vengeance to violence. It doesn’t solve anything, in the end.”

“Even if you die because you can’t fight back?”

“Yes, ultimately, even if I die. But it’s better to calm a situation – talk, argue, negotiate.” He met Napoleon’s grave look with a crooked smile, and added, “Doesn’t the Bible say turn the other cheek? Love thine enemy?”

“You still might die.”

“Yes. But my soul wouldn’t.”

“I thought you didn’t have one.”

“I’m a trained killer. If I ever had one, it’s lost …”

“Crap,” said Napoleon, inelegantly.

oo000oo

The wound wasn’t serious. It began to heal and Illya was able to start exercising it to restore muscle strength after a few days.

They declined invitations to be interviewed by the press, refused to be photographed, and the fuss died down after a day or two, leaving them free to get back to the job in hand. This, however, required clearance from British Intelligence who resented intrusions on their patch, especially by armed aliens.

They hauled them in and checked all their weapons. “ _All_ of them, please, gentlemen.”

The array laid out included their black shoulder holsters and guns; ankle holsters (and guns), clips of bullets and sleep darts, and various pieces of pyrotechnology. The British were impressed, despite themselves, by the sophistication of some of the gadgets, and even asked how they might be obtained. But they remained offended by what had happened in a very public and busy part of the city.

Their interrogator looked down at the report in front of him. “Shots were exchanged. In Trafalgar Square. This is quite unacceptable. Explain.”

Illya spoke. “We were watching our man from behind one of the bronze lions,” he said. “He came down the steps from the St Martin-in-the Fields side, and started to walk across the Square – heading for Spring Gardens, so presumably for The Mall.”

“Meaning?”

“He had a choice from there, of any of the royal palaces – Clarence House, St James’ Palace, Buckingham Palace – or the government buildings backing onto Horseguards Road…”

“Downing Street, you think?”

“Perhaps, or the Foreign Office.”

“With what object?”

Napoleon now spoke. “Thrush operates where its best interests lie, and that’s often in public places – and among high life, rather than lowlife, as you might say.”

“They seem happy to use lowlifes,” one of the British agents remarked.

“Of course. It keeps the police busy with people they already know.”

“You’ve seen the paperwork, I assume?” said Illya. “We’ve been on the trail of this Thrush project for some time. Rather than handing it to MI5, our organisation was given permission both to pursue the mission, and to have your cooperation. The man we were watching was involved with implementing the plans, whatever they were, for the disruption of public life, and may have been about to act on them. We failed to catch him.”

“Incompetence, Mr Kuryakin?”

“Accident. A child ran among all the pigeons pecking at what people were feeding them. The birds all took flight – right at us. Our man turned and saw us in the middle of them, and ran. We followed, and he turned and fired. I fired back and winged him.” Illya touched his own arm. “It was fortunate that he hit me and not one of the children.”

The British agent looked at him curiously. “Fortunate?”

“Certainly. The lives of innocents are more valuable than ours.”

“Pity it wasn’t a pigeon, or a starling. People _will_ feed them. Damn’ nuisance,” the Englishman said, imperfectly concealing a surprised concern at Illya’s statement. “How _is_ your arm, by the way?” he asked.

Illya ignored the question and continued his report. “I understand the trail of blood ended on the Embankment, and no-one seems to have noticed him, so the police lost him too.”

oo000oo

The fuss died down in the press, but not in the upper echelons of British intelligence. High-level talks, arguments and negotiations ensued. The flagrant discharge of a lethal weapon in a public place, putting the lives of ordinary Londoners at risk, had been a step too far for even the closest ally to take. The investigation was reluctantly handed over to MI5, and the two UNCLE agents returned, fully armed and unprosecuted, to the streets of New York.

oo000oo

**Author's Note:**

> (LJ Short Affair challenge 19 February 2018. Prompts: work, black)
> 
> 1\. Since the 1960s, access to firearms in the UK has been even more tightly controlled. Sporting rifles and shotguns are permitted under licence – but handguns, not at all, let alone semi-automatics. Gun homicides are among the lowest in the world.  
> 2\. There used to be a bird seed stall there, but feeding the birds in Trafalgar Square now incurs a £500 fine. A trained hawk keeps the pigeons away (I miss the starlings most).  
> 


End file.
